Speaking with the Dead
by P.T. Tucker
Summary: Moriarty is dead. Sherlock goes to speak with him.


**AN:** Warnings for implied/referenced drug abuse & suicide.

"I see you figured it out," Mycroft said when Sherlock stepped into the room. He didn't bother to turn around as he poured himself a glass – his third, judging by the pinking of his cheeks. "I had hoped it might keep your attention for at least a few days, but I suppose it couldn't be helped. I wasn't given much time to prepare."

"Sorry to disappoint, brother mine." Sherlock's eyes traveled around the sitting room as he came to stand in front of Mycroft's chair. His brother had been here a while. Possibly since he'd returned home from the plane.

"Not to worry." Mycroft's lips curled up into a false smile. "I'm used to it." He raised his glass towards Sherlock in a toast before downing half of it in a single swallow.

Sherlock's attention snapped back towards his brother. "And here I thought you weren't angry."

"I'm not," Mycroft murmured before taking another drink. It resounded in the room like a shout, only far louder. Mycroft shouting, while rare, was within the normal parameters. Mycroft whispering into his scotch like a widower lamenting the death of her husband for the thousandth time was an unacceptable anomaly in the data.

"Yes, well-" Sherlock paced in front of the unlit fireplace, his coat brushing Mycroft's raised foot with each pass. "-disappointment is somewhat along another vein of emotion, and I know how very hard it is for you to feel anything at all, let alone multiple emotions at once."

"I'm not disappointed either. Disappointment implies an expectation that wasn't met. I assure you, I had no such hope."

"Oh? Then I suppose now is when you tell me all about how worried you were, or maybe even how _inconvenienced_ this has all been. Can't have been easy setting up the reappearance of an internationally wanted and very much dead criminal mastermind." Sherlock's coat whirled as he picked up his pace, his turns becoming as sharp as his retorts. Mycroft wasn't following the script.

"I'm tired."

Sherlock froze. Behind him, liquid splashed into Mycroft's glass as he poured himself another drink from the bottle he'd left sitting beside his chair. At the rate he was going, Sherlock would soon be graced with the delightful image of his brother completely pissed and rambling about the state of America's gun control while Sherlock sat by and made sure he didn't accidentally build a bomb out of kitchen chemicals or suffocate on his own vomit. It'd be an interesting change in their roles, but not one in which Sherlock was keen to participate.

He flounced over and snatched the glass from his brother's hand. He took the bottle as well, just in case, before plopping into the chair beside Mycroft.

"I don't suppose _you_ have a list." Sherlock took a sip out of Mycroft's glass, just to see if Mycroft would reprimand him for mixing alcohol with the narcotics he'd taken earlier. He didn't.

"There's a label on the bottle."

"So there is," Sherlock said, placing it on the floor. His fingers drummed against the chair arm.

Mycroft sighed. "As touching as this unexpected show of brotherly sentiment may be, it is entirely unnecessary. I'll inform you of the details tomorrow. For now, try to at least _pretend_ you're not already bored with the Moriarty case. The last thing we need is Mrs. Watson sniffing about."

Sherlock "hmmed" though he disagreed with his brother's blatant distaste.

"Why didn't you kill her?" Sherlock asked. He had wanted to know for some time, but it had seemed like one of those questions they didn't ask each other. It was right up there with 'why do you keep a loaded gun in your desk that contains only one bullet?' The answer was probably something neither of them wanted to discuss. But if Mycroft was breaking the rules then Sherlock would too.

"You like her."

"She _shot_ me." He sent his brother an incredulous look. "The last time I was in hospital, you found the man responsible for my broken arm and had him sent away to Antarctica."

"That was a private interaction between him and the British government. Good to know our security system has always been faulty, and it's not just a recent development."

"Mycroft." Sherlock's tapping stopped as he squeezed his left hand into a fist. He stared at the unlit fireplace and tried not to think of what it meant. His brother had been planning on becoming _very_ inebriated.

Mycroft sighed again and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Why do you think, Sherlock? Ignoring your penchant for liking things that can destroy you, if I'd had John's pregnant wife eliminated, he'd have left you. He still might if things don't go according to plan."

Sherlock's brows drew together at the slip, but now wasn't the time to ask about this apparent 'plan.' Best to let Mycroft drunkenly meander through the conversation and sort through any gained information later.

"If you don't leave him first," Mycroft added.

And there was some of the Mycroft that Sherlock knew. The subtle hint of reprimand: if Sherlock had just _waited_ Mycroft would have taken care of it. The silent but easily-heard jab at Sherlock's intelligence: _of course_ Mycroft had created a plan and _of course_ he couldn't have relayed it while Sherlock had been awaiting his sentence. Far too much surveillance and any contact with Mycroft would have been suspect. The whispered, never commented upon, hurt just underneath everything else: had Sherlock truly thought he was going to allow him to _die_ without doing anything?

Sherlock looked towards the windows, not wanting to catch Mycroft's expression even out of the corner of his eye. "Forgive me."

There was a poignant pause before Mycroft replied, "I must have consumed more than I'd thought."

Sherlock's lips twitched.

"Well then," Mycoft said, standing. His face was carefully blank when Sherlock risked a glance in his direction. "I do believe that should fill our quota for maudlin conversations spoken in the middle of the night."

"Mmm, yes. We should be set for the next decade at least."

"Quite so. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time I retire. Some of us have duties to attend to in the morning."

"I'll walk you." Sherlock stood, glass in hand.

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. "I'm hardly that drunk, Sherlock. You can rest assured that I won't fall down the stairs should you leave me to make my way through my own home." Not like Sherlock had, that one time. Mycroft was better than that.

"What would you have done if I had died?" Sherlock asked, needing to get in one last inquiry. One last truth that they never acknowledged, while Mycroft was still pissed and Sherlock still high. One last bared emotion before they both went their separate ways and pretended this night never happened.

He addressed his question to Mycroft's pocket. Or, rather, the notebook inside Mycroft's pocket. The one he'd seen only once by chance.

Mycroft's responding smile was thinned-lipped and dead.

Sherlock took another sip of the scotch. This time because he needed it. Placing the empty glass on the mantel above the fireplace, he turned back to hook his arm through his brother's.

"I'll walk you," he said again.

It came out as 'I promise.'

Mycroft nodded, once.


End file.
